I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,

Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.

I sing of Maypoles, hock carts, wassails, wakes,

Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.

I write of youth, of love, and have access

By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.

I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,

Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.

I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write

How roses first came red and lilies white.

I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing

The court of Mab and of the fairy king.

I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)

Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.